


Undeniable

by rowenaaine



Series: Learning to Heal [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Season 5 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 21:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenaaine/pseuds/rowenaaine
Summary: Bruce is distraught over Selina's attack on Jeremiah.





	1. Chapter 1

Bruce couldn't believe his eyes. 

He'd arrived just in time to prevent the final blow; to see her pull the knife out of Jeremiah's midsection and aim for his heart. 

"Selina! Stop! It's over." Bruce tugged her away, Jeremiah falling sideways onto the concrete floor without Selina's solid form to keep him in place.

"We've got to get out of here," Bruce murmured, hearing someone call Jeremiah's name and realizing these people were cult members that would avenge their leader's death.

His _death_. 

After Alfred threw the smoke bomb to cause a distraction, Bruce took one last look over his shoulder at Jeremiah's prone body. Blood seeped from his gut, and his pale gray eyes stared out at nothing. A pain, like someone squeezing his chest, caused Bruce to nearly double over. He blinked back the wetness that threatened to spill from his eyes - likely just a reaction to the smoke bomb, he told himself - and turned away to follow Alfred and Selina.

Once out of the labyrinth-like underground facility, Bruce grabbed Selina's arm and turned her around.

"How could you? I told you he needed to be brought to justice!"

"Justice!" she sneered. "I gave him the justice he needed. That psychopath nearly killed me! Or did you forget already just because I can walk?" She shoved Bruce hard enough to cause him to stagger back two steps.

"Alright, that's bloody enough!" Alfred stepped between them. "This is not the time for fisticuffs. Let's get the hell out of here before you two attract more attention than we need. Christ!" 

"Oh, I'll get the hell out of here, alright. I don't need you. Either of you!" Selina took off like a shot, outmaneuvering the two men she left behind even with a limp from the leg injury she sustained from her fight with Ecco.

"Oi, I told you to hold your temper, Bruce."

"Hold my temper? Alfred, she murdered a man in cold blood! Right in front of us!"

"'Fraid I'm not one to have much sympathy for Valeska, mate. He had it coming to him, crazy bastard," Alfred snapped. "Come on then, let's get back to the Green Zone."

"Whatever," Bruce muttered, angrily shrugging Alfred's hand off his shoulder. 

 

 

Bruce and Alfred had been unaware of the devastation that had taken place at Haven, and when they arrived that night, they did their best to help Jim Gordon and the remaining survivors with triage and support. But to say Bruce was moody and distracted was an understatement. He was mostly silent, and when he did speak he was argumentative or cold.

"Bruce, what's going on?" Jim asked as delicately as he could under the circumstances. There was, after all, no time to babysit an 18-year-old with the work needing to be done. 

"Nothing. Just tired. I'm tired of trying; tired of helping people that just end up lying to me." Gordon raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

The next morning, the makeshift cot Bruce had slept in was empty and there was no sign of the young man. Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. 

 

 

It wasn't long before word spread that the bogeyman of Gotham, Jeremiah Valeska, had been vanquished. Slain like a dragon. No one knew exactly what had happened, only that he'd been killed. Soon enough, the news reached the heads of the zones who all breathed a sigh of relief that no bombs would take out the rest of the city's infrastructure. Harvey Bullock suggested that Valeska was the one who blew up Haven and the Wayne Enterprises helicopter. It fit his modus operandi, and Gordon was persuaded to close out the investigation.

There was, of course, no corpse.  Rumor had it that the Mummer had him taken away to bury him privately.

Three days after Valeska's death, Barbara Kean hosted a party at the Sirens in Selina Kyle's honor - openly naming her as Jeremiah's killer. When Bruce showed up, Selina was smirking and basking in all the attention.  He listened to Barbara's toast and watched Selina soak up the praise; sorrow and dismay filling his very being. He made his way over to her, startling her into spilling her champagne.

"You seem pretty pleased with yourself."

"How should I act, Bruce? That lunatic can't hurt any of us again. I'm pleased as punch."

Bruce clenched his fists. "Killing should never be something you're proud of, Selina!" He lowered his voice to a hiss. "Identifying yourself as a murderer isn't a great idea, either. You don't think Jim Gordon will find out and arrest you?"

"Jim Gordon isn't going to do anything," Barbara snarked from behind him. "There are, what, five cops left in this godforsaken city? Just stop whining. Valeska is out of our hair, and it's all due to our little Kitty-Cat. Thank you again, babe," she winked at Selina. "We all owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Jesus! You're both crazy!" Bruce yelled, storming off into the night.

"What's eating him?" Barbara asked, genuinely surprised at Bruce's attitude.

"Oh, he wanted to see Jeremiah stand trial for his crimes, blah, blah, blah. I say the prick got exactly the punishment he deserved and frankly got off easy. You should have seen the surprise on that freak's face when I shanked him," Selina smiled. "Fuck him. I'm glad he's dead." The two women clinked glasses and laughed.

 

 

Bruce went off the grid.

He wandered around Gotham looking for a fight. Just like when the bridges first blew, he stalked low-level thugs and kicked them around. But this time he wasn't looking for Jeremiah. This time, he was looking to lose himself. To use his anger to hurt anyone who dared to look at him sideways.

He was angry at Selina for what he considered to be something she could never come back from. He remembered how he felt "killing" Ra's Al Ghul, even though the man is immortal and could eventually come back...it was the worst thing he'd ever done and the guilt still plagued his dreams.

He was also angry at Jeremiah...for so many things. For hurting Selina, for kidnapping Alfred, for blowing up half the damn city.

For becoming a cold-hearted terrorist instead of remaining the awkward, red-headed engineer he'd fallen for. 

After walking far enough away from The Sirens and the more murky sides of town, Bruce looked up to find he was in the Dark Zone standing in front of the church. Jeremiah's church. 

He saw bouquets of flowers and half melted candles underneath the small shrine that contained Jeremiah's picture. Someone had draped the doors in black and purple fabric. Slowly, Bruce mounted the steps and slipped inside.

In the chapel area, a lone figure in a white, red and black robe sat in the front row staring at the altar. Bruce quietly sat in the last pew and stared straight ahead. The figure turned, glancing disinterestedly at the billionaire. From the corner of his eye, Bruce could see they were wearing a Mummer's mask and assumed it was Ecco. They ignored each other.

So many emotions churning in Bruce's gut made him want to lash out; maybe break the stained glass windows that mocked him with Jeremiah's placid, pale face. Instead, after a time, Bruce got up and walked down the aisle past Ecco and the altar. He headed up the narrow staircase. She didn't follow and no one stopped him when he reached the top. There was no one there _to_ stop him.

He walked past the area where the bodies of the fallen prospective followers had been (they were all mysteriously gone) and past the blood-stained pool. Bruce took the next staircase up and continued until he reached a dark hallway with several closed doors. He tried each of them in turn. They appeared to be small living quarters, like in a monastery. Just the bare necessities: bed, dresser, chair and writing table with lamp. Each room clean, beds neatly made with white linens. They looked as if they had never been occupied, or as if Ecco had cleaned everything out once their savior was gone. 

 

 

Bruce finally looked in the corner room, and what he found there took his breath away. It, too, was a bedroom. But instead of white sheets, this one had blood red sheets and a much larger bed. Instead of a dresser, there was a cherry-wood wardrobe and a matching full-size desk and chair. A banker's lamp sat atop the desk with its familiar green shade and brass fixture. Against his better judgment, Bruce opened the wardrobe and found Jeremiah's suits, shirts, and ties. The man's essence still clung to the clothing and Bruce found himself stroking the fabric of one of the jackets between his fingers as tears filled his eyes.

He sank to the floor with the jacket in his hands and started to sob in earnest.  

"I never wanted this for you," Bruce murmured in between his choked crying. "I never wanted you dead, Jeremiah. I just wanted you back the way you were. The way _we_ were before all this shit happened." He held the jacket, the blue and black style the man had worn when the bridges blew, up to his face and breathed in Jeremiah's scent. It made him sob even harder. Bruce had thought he was no longer sentimental once the five years after his parents' murder passed, so his behavior shocked him.

Yet, he couldn't let go. 

He remembered meeting Jeremiah that first day in the bunker; convincing him to help rescue Jerome's hostages.

He remembered how terrified the engineer had been, and how relieved they had both been when it was all over. He remembered building the generators (the ones that became _bombs_ , Bruce) and the reveal in the cemetery when he learned that Jerome had somehow poisoned Jeremiah and changed his very core - took away his skin and eye color and, worse still, took away his conscience and turned him into a monster.

He remembered how he had fallen in love with Jeremiah Valeska that first day and on a dark street in Gotham, offered him the grant that led to the destruction of the city.

He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of the jacket, shoulders shaking with emotions that he'd pushed so far down that he had never dealt with them.

"I miss you, you bastard. I miss the you that I loved. And God help me, I even miss the you I thought I hated. I _never_ hated you. I just wanted things back the way they were. If I couldn't have that, I just wanted you safely in Arkham so you could get help. Not _this_. _Never_ this."

In his distress, Bruce never heard the footfalls in the hallway nor the click of the latch as the door opened. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds what he's missing.

A man stood in the doorway, staring in wonder at a dark form sitting on the floor hugging a piece of clothing to his face. It took a moment to register what he was seeing.

"I can't do this," Bruce sobbed. "I...damn it, I love you, Jeremiah."

"Oh, Bruce," the man sighed. "I love you, too."

Bruce startled, banging his head against the wardrobe. He ducked down and sprang right back up, a switchblade in his right hand.

"Who..." He gasped when he saw someone who looked a lot like Jeremiah standing in the doorway. He shook his head to clear his vision. "It can't be. You're dead."

"Bruce, take it easy."

"Who are you?" Bruce yelled, circling around the bed toward the intruder.

"Bruce." Jeremiah stepped into the room and shut the door, quickly turning the lock without taking his eyes off of the blade. "Whoever you think I am, please drop the knife." He held his hands up, palms out. "I assure you I've seen enough knives recently to last me quite a while."

Bruce stared in shock. This man was wearing a navy tweed suit, a burgundy shirt and tie, and had a chalk-white complexion. His lips were a darker shade of red than Bruce remembered but realized it was probably lipstick.

"Please?" Jeremiah asked, gesturing at the knife with his cleft chin. 

Bruce closed the knife and shoved it in his jacket. "Who are you and what have you done with Jeremiah's body?" he asked, resignedly.

What kind of place _was_ Gotham anymore? He really needed a vacation.

"It's me, Bruce." Jeremiah approached slowly, with the grace Bruce had come to expect. But there was something off about his walk. He was moving gingerly, as if in discomfort.

"It can't be. I saw Selina..." Bruce took a ragged breath and choked out, " _kill_ you."

"Yes, and she did a quite a number on me, I'll be the first to admit." He stopped right in front of Bruce. The younger man raised his fists into a fight stance. Jeremiah grasped him gently by the wrists and shook him. "Bruce. Bruce, stop. Look at me."

Bruce froze. It was definitely Jeremiah's voice. His eyes darted quickly around the man's facial features. It certainly looked like him. This close, it certainly smelled like him, too: a familiar soapy-musky scent with just a hint of spice.

"Jeremiah? Is it really you?"

"Look, I'll show you the wounds. Can you lose the knife first? It's understandably making me nervous."

Bruce rolled his eyes and when Jeremiah released his hands he dumped the switchblade out of his pocket onto the wooden floor.

"Thank you. Any other weapons I need to be aware of?"

Bruce shook his head. "How are you even standing?" he murmured, once again, tears forming in his eyes. 

Jeremiah nodded at the bed. "Please sit. I'll try to explain as best I can, but part of it is still a mystery even to me."

Bruce sat on the edge of the mattress but before Jeremiah could sit next to him, he held up his hand. "I want to see the proof."

"Of course you do," Jeremiah smirked. He stood directly in front of Bruce and reached for his jacket buttons. "Just unbuttoning, okay? Not reaching for any weapons." He quickly undid the two suit jacket buttons and unknotted his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt and then gasped in surprise when Bruce tugged it out of his pants for him. Underneath was a white wifebeater that he allowed Bruce to lift.

It was Bruce's turn to gasp.

"It's...you're..." Bruce shook his head in awe. "How are these injuries scabbed over already?" He traced the flurry of ragged stab wounds with his finger, Jeremiah's stomach twitching from the sensation.

"It's still pretty tender there, Doubting Thomas. Please go easy," he murmured.

"How is this possible? My God, you should have bled out."

"Yes. May I sit?" Bruce stared at the wounds for a moment and then nodded sheepishly. Jeremiah sat next to him. "Look, I can only surmise it has something to do with the gas Jerome sprayed me with. I'd noticed early on that my pain tolerance was greatly increased."

"Even so, you're not immortal," Bruce said absently.

"Like your friend Ra's Al Ghul? No, I don't think so. But I seem to have enhanced healing capabilities. When your butler and Jim Gordon beat me? Those bruises were literally gone the next day. The night the bridges blew?" Bruce nodded. "I don't know if you saw, but Oswald Cobblepot shot me."

"I don't remember that," Bruce admitted.

"A lot was going on," Jeremiah smiled indulgently. "He got me in the shoulder. I felt the impact, but not much pain. Anyway, the bullet passed through the fleshy part of my shoulder. By the third day of changing the dressing, the wounds had closed up. In a week, only scars remained. I suspect this will be something like that, though the severity of it may take a bit longer to fully heal."

"I saw her gut you like a fish," Bruce said with conviction.

"Yes. And thank you for pulling her off me. I hadn't quite anticipated that kind of confrontation. I thought she'd give a little speech before she struck out at me but I should have known once she'd been healed by Ivy her nature would be changed." Bruce looked at him in shock. "I hear about everything that happens in Gotham, my dear. But yes, I was caught off guard and your friend got the drop on me. Afterward, Ecco had me taken to a safe place where she patched me up and sat guard at my side until I regained consciousness. I was out cold for about a day. She's quite protective of me and let everyone believe I was dead."

"Ecco was downstairs and let me come right up."

"Of course she did. She'd been instructed to. I'd hoped you would come looking for me, perhaps leave me a farewell message." He gestured to the open wardrobe and the jacket on the floor. "Not the scene I'd expected to walk in on. You surpri..."

Jeremiah's words were hushed with the press of Bruce's lips against his own. He hummed contentedly, cupping Bruce's face as Bruce wrapped his arms around Jeremiah's neck and deepened the kiss desperately.

"My God," Jeremiah huffed. "You continue to surprise me, Bruce Wayne."

"Shut up." 

"Yes," the pale man agreed, happily letting Bruce kiss him again. He pulled back when he felt wetness on his cheeks. "Bruce, don't be sad. I'm alive. It's really me." He took one of Bruce's hands and pressed it to his chest, let him feel the _lub-dub_ of his heartbeat.

"Not sad," Bruce hiccupped out, "just grateful. How many times did she..."

"Not sure. Honestly, I lost count. I tried to talk a little smack at her after the first stab, but after the fourth, it got a little fuzzy. I just remember seeing you come to the rescue right before I passed out."

Bruce traced the wounds again and Jeremiah watched him with a fond expression.

"I wish I could say it didn't hurt, but it did. Still does, but not as debilitating as it could be. It's as if, when I get injured, some kind of hormone is secreted that numbs the pain. It's fascinating...as is the rapid healing...but not enough for me to start experimenting on my tolerance. If I never get injured like this again, I'd be perfectly content," he chuckled.

Bruce shook his head and met Jeremiah's gaze. "Do you understand how amazing this is?"

"Well, I'm just glad _something_ good came of that gas." Jeremiah joked. When Bruce didn't crack a smile, Jeremiah's expression sobered. "Bruce, did you mean it? What you said when I walked in?"

The 18-year-old flushed a deep pink and bit his lip. "Of course I did. Wouldn't have said it otherwise."

The older man stroked the hair back from Bruce's forehead. "Your love is all I ever wanted," he whispered. "You are  _everything_ to me."

"It shouldn't have taken me thinking you were dead to realize I love you, though," Bruce admitted through gritted teeth.

"I understand. I've been a disappointment to you." 

Bruce shook his head. "Disappointment isn't really the word. I hated what you'd become." Jeremiah's expression didn't change. "Nearly every day I think back to how you were when we met. That's who I thought I fell in love with." Jeremiah nodded his head and looked down at his lap.

"But..." Bruce continued. Jeremiah looked up at him again and waited.

"But, I can't erase my feelings for you. No matter what you've done, apparently," he said morosely. "Thinking you were dead? It felt like when my parents were ripped from me. I'd been stumbling around for days trying to come to terms with your death and failing miserably. At least before it felt like there was a chance for us to find our way back, you know?"

Jeremiah wiped at Bruce's cheek with his thumb. "Maybe I can do something to help us rebuild what we had. Before." He gestured to his own face. "I'm not about to give up my plans entirely," and before Bruce could interrupt, he held up a finger. "Not _entirely_. But I'm willing to discuss them with you and maybe alter them so they are more agreeable to you. I realize I have been a little overbearing in my methods," he smirked. Bruce stared at him, a seed of hope in his chest. "Give me another chance? To be closer to what you need, Bruce? I'll need to lay low and let people think I'm dead for the time being. But I'm willing to do just about anything to keep you in my life."

"Will you?" Bruce asked breathlessly. He pushed the shirt and jacket off Jeremiah's shoulders, mindful of the angry patchwork of stab wounds traveling up the man's stomach to his chest. He pressed his cheek against Jeremiah's collarbone and just breathed him in. 

The pale man gently ran his fingers through Bruce's dark hair. "My love, dying gives one a greater perspective on what there is to live for."

The moment was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.

"Yes?" 

"Everything alright in there, Mr. J?" Ecco asked from the hall.

"I think so." Jeremiah settled on the bed with his back against the headboard and gazed adoringly at his guest. "Bruce?"

"We're good, thanks," Bruce agreed distractedly, joining Jeremiah after dropping his black leather jacket and turtleneck on the floor.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dreaming about Providence  
> And whether mice or men have second tries  
> Maybe we've been livin' with our eyes half open  
> Maybe we're bent and broken, broken
> 
> We were meant to live for so much more..."
> 
> \- Switchfoot, "Meant to Live"
> 
>  
> 
> So excited that people are enjoying this short fic. I'm going to continue it as a series.
> 
> If you want to read an earlier Jeremiah/Bruce story of mine (13 chapters but it's more explicit) have a look at [ Poison in the Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14445681). Started before the end of season 4, it's AU but not too, too far off.


End file.
